CHAPTER 12. OXYGEN #6
I let out a slow breath, trying to shake the tension off. The urge to say something—to clear the air, to ask, to know—presses hard against my ribs. But I swallow it down.
After a few more minutes of silent back-and-forth in my head, I finally blurt out the first thing that comes to mind. Just to hear his voice. Just to ground myself in something normal.
“Our mom wants Monica and me to visit.”
Xavier blinks, turning his head back toward me.
“When?” he asks, studying my face.
“Next week,” I say. “But I’m not planning to go. Not until you’re better, at least.”
“You can go,” Xavier says quickly. “I’ll be fine.”
“Trying to get rid of me?” I smirk, though the edge of desperation slips through.
Xavier tilts his head, frowning like the thought never even crossed his mind. “Why would I want that?”
I shrug, suddenly feeling stupid. “I don’t know. Maybe you want some…ugh…space.”
The second I say it, I regret it. The words just hang there between us—their meaning obvious, heavy. Xavier’s expression shifts—like he knows exactly what I’m really asking.
“I don’t,” he says simply.
Neither of us looks away. The air feels thicker, like there’s something pulling between us.
And then, without warning, my mind betrays me—Xavier under me, breathless, his cock hot in my hand, his face slack with pleasure.
The memory hits me so hard my stomach knots.
I blink fast, forcing it out of my head.
Xavier quickly looks away, like he’s just read my mind. Embarrassment flares in my chest—but then he asks, voice rough, “So why does she want to see you?”
I shrug. “She’s worried about me.”
“Why?” Xavier frowns, not following.
I clear my throat. “Probably because of what they’re writing in the papers.”
“About us?” His voice stays even, but his eyes sharpen as they meet mine.
I nod, my face heating.
Shit. Why did I even bring that up? Now it just sounds like I’m ashamed of what happened between us—or worse, like I regret it.
I scramble for something to say, but nothing comes. So I blurt it all out in one breath:
“Uh… she’s not conservative or anything, but she wanted grandkids, and Monica’s gay, so I was her only hope for offspring. That’s why she’s worried.”
I tack on an awkward smile like that’s going to help.
God, why am I suddenly stuttering and oversharing around Xavier?
And why the hell did I just say I’m my mom’s hope for offspring?
That makes it sound like I’m not gay—which, okay, technically I’m not, because I’m bi—but now it sounds like I am straight.
And like I’m trying to set some kind of boundary with Xavier. Like I’m making it clear that I—
“I didn’t know your sister’s gay.”
I freeze, yanked out of my spiraling thoughts. There’s a flicker of curiosity in Xavier’s voice.
“Uh, yeah.” I nod, a little relieved he’s switched gears. “She brought her first girlfriend home to meet our mom in eighth grade.”
Xavier smirks—and are we seriously having a normal conversation right now?
About my family, of all things? Something that has nothing to do with work or death?
And not just that—we’re talking about my sister’s sexuality, which somehow feels even weirder, considering we’ve never talked about our own.
Especially after what happened between us a few hours ago.
Might be something we should talk about.
“Are you planning to visit your mom?” I ask, mostly just to keep him talking.
Xavier shakes his head. “I’m sure she just wants to stick her nose in my business.”
“Well,” I shrug, “don’t be too hard on her.”
He frowns, like he’s not sure what I mean—then something shifts in his expression, and he gives a small nod.
“What about your father’s funeral, by the way?” I ask, careful not to push.
He throws me a quick, unreadable glance. “He was cremated. There won’t be a ceremony.”
“Oh. I see.”
We fall into silence again. The car hums beneath us, the city sliding past outside.
After a few minutes, Xavier says quietly, “Sorry…for, uh…this morning.”
I go still. Heat rises in my chest, but I don’t say anything—I just wait. So we are talking about it.
He clears his throat. “I wasn’t feeling like myself…” His voice trails off.
My breath catches. The car suddenly feels too hot, too small. The words slip out before I can stop them.
“You mean…you didn’t want to?” I think I’m going to be sick.
He blinks, startled. “What? No, I didn’t—I mean…” He falters, rubbing a hand over his face. “I’m just saying I—”
Another breath. A shake of his head. “Never mind. Forget it.”
He falls quiet, cheeks flushed.
Shit. Does he regret it? My stomach twists as I turn toward the window, watching the snow blur into streaks of white and gray. My heart pounds, my eyes sting from the sudden rush of emotion.
We sit like that for a moment, neither of us speaking.
Then Xavier says, more abruptly this time, “That night you went drinking with Fred Collins… how much do you actually remember?”
I glance over, caught off guard by the shift. “Uh. Some of it. Why?”
He doesn’t answer right away. “You met him, and the next morning there was an article in the papers.”
I frown. “Okay…and?”
“Could Fred have planted the bug on you?”
“What?” I let out a disbelieving laugh. “How would he even do that?”
“I don’t know.” His voice stays even, but there’s tension beneath it. Like he already has a theory—and he’s waiting to see if I’ll get there first.
And then it hits me.
“Wait—” I stop, the realization slamming into me. “Are you asking if I slept with him?”
Xavier doesn’t answer, but I catch the tight set of his jaw, the way he’s watching me—like he’s waiting for a confirmation he doesn’t actually want to hear.
“No! Of course I didn’t.” I drag a hand down my face, mortified he even thinks I could’ve. When I look back at him, I’m still stunned—and there’s a flicker of anger burning in my chest. “Seriously? You think I’d do that?”
“You were drunk,” Xavier says, still pointed, though the edge in his voice has dulled.
“So what? I don’t black out after a few drinks. I’d know if someone tried to take off my belt. Or sleep with me, for that matter.”
“You were really drunk,” he says again—and there’s a sharper note this time, just under the surface.
“I wasn’t that far gone. Trust me, I’d remember if anything actually happened.”
Xavier’s expression shifts. His eyes narrow, still locked on mine.
“Then you remember what happened after?”
“After?” I echo, hesitating.
“When you came home.”
“Yes,” I say, a little too quickly. “I came home. And went to sleep.”
“Right.” His mouth tightens. “Then that explains it.”
I blink. “Explains what?”
“How Fred could’ve planted the bug,” Xavier says, his voice flat. “You were completely out of it.”
I wince, heat rising to my face. God, this is humiliating.
“Look, yeah, I was drunk. And I remember lying on the floor in the living room, if that’s what you’re getting at,” I say, still not following.
Xavier doesn’t answer.
I sigh, uneasy. “Is there something else I’m supposed to remember?”
And the second the words leave my mouth—just looking at him—I know there is. I just don’t know what.
“Wait, is this about that sex and math joke again?” I ask, hoping that’s all it is.
Xavier shakes his head.
“Doesn’t matter. The point is, Fred sold you out.”
I let out a short laugh. “You think he wrote the article that same night? He was just as drunk as I was. And he’d only just moved to the city—he found out about your existence that evening. He didn’t know anything about us. Or the agency.”
“Or so he said,” Xavier mutters. “People lie easiest when they claim they’ve got no reason to.”
“What makes you think it happened that night? The bug could’ve been planted earlier. Maybe while we were out.”
Xavier considers this for a beat, then shakes his head.
“If it happened earlier, the tabloids would’ve had a field day with that argument we had at Federico’s. And that was the day before you met Fred.”
“Maybe,” I say, not quite ready to admit he has a point.
“That night’s when they started tailing us,” Xavier goes on. “You saw the paper—there were photos, but nothing about the argument. And the only new variable in those twenty-four hours was Fred Collins.”
“Wait.” I blink, still lost. “None of what they wrote was even true. So why are you so sure the bug couldn’t have been planted later?”
Xavier shoots me a look but doesn’t answer.
I sigh. “Look, I get that you don’t like Fred, but that doesn’t mean he’s behind everything.”
“The bug showed up the same night you came home drunk. It couldn’t have happened after that.”
“It could’ve.”
“It couldn’t.”
“What makes you so sure?!”
“Because something from that night did make it into the paper,” Xavier snaps—and his already flushed face darkens another shade.
My chest tightens. I blink at him, thrown. “What?”
He swallows, gaze locked on the window.
“Xavier?..”
Silence. He looks almost angry.
“Xavier…” Unease crawls up my spine. “What made it into the paper?”
“Forget it,” he says quietly.
“Tell me.”
“Let’s not,” he mutters, and then, colder, “I don’t feel well enough for this.” He shuts his eyes. Conversation over.
So I sit there, turning it over in my head, trying to remember everything they wrote about us—every headline, every rumor. Anything that might’ve slipped through. But I’ve got nothing. No clue. And the longer I sit there, buzzing with anxiety, the more nauseous I start to feel.
Not knowing is the worst part.
We ride the rest of the way in silence. When the cab pulls up in front of SCPD, I get out, shut the polished black door behind me, and glance around for Xavier. In the morning light, he looks even more flushed than before, his features slack with exhaustion.
“How are you feeling?” I ask as we head up the steps toward the entrance.
Xavier pulls his coat tighter, shivering.
“Fine,” he says without meeting my eyes.
He’s not. I know he’s not. But I let it go.